


Taking A Chance

by Tarlan



Series: Starting Over [2]
Category: Tombstone (1993)
Genre: Angst, Drama, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-26
Updated: 2006-10-26
Packaged: 2017-10-18 16:59:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/191134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarlan/pseuds/Tarlan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Johnny wonders what to do with his second chance at life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taking A Chance

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Lynda for being a great sounding wall for my ideas -- and for offering some great ones in return.

Johnny Ringo stood on the opposite side of the dusk-shadowed street, licking his too-dry lips in unconscious desire as he thought of the whiskey for sale within the gaily-lit saloon. The sound of laughter and of enthusiastic piano playing drifted across, and he could imagine the ruddy-faced, rowdy drunks toasting each other as they drank the fiery liquid. He screwed his eyes shut and turned away, walking inside the hotel to the small dining area. He retreated to the farthest corner, sitting with his back to the wall and ordered a coffee. It came quickly, and he took a sip of the hot brew. It was thick, black and strong, filling his mouth with its pungency but it could not remove the craving for whiskey.

Silently, he wished he could kill that craving as easily as he had taken lives but despite his longing for alcohol he whispered hoarsely, "I will not drink today."

This was the mantra he'd taken up since starting over as John Fabian ten days ago. He was determined not to sink back into the misery and mire that had been his former life, and he knew that had been made worse by his dependency on the whiskey that stole away his reasoning.

The first day had been the worst; the smell of whiskey acting as a siren's call but he **had** resisted knowing that a single drink would only lead to many more. Each day since was just a little more bearable. He knew he would never be totally free of the desire to drink himself into senselessness, but then he no longer felt the urge to gamble with his life either. He didn't want to end up dead; face down in a ditch after choking on his own vomit or filled with lead after starting a gunfight with some liquored-up cowboy who proved himself the faster or more deadly shot. He'd been granted a second chance to do something with his life; a chance to start over, and he was determined not to foul it up.

It hadn't been easy; but then he'd never expected it to be easy. He'd rediscovered, on that very first night of abstinence, the reason why he'd taken to drinking so heavily. In a drunken sleep he did not dream. He did not relive the nightmare images of death and destruction, of blood running in rivers across the battlefield, and of men screaming in fear and agony as gun and cannon fire boomed around them.

He'd been little more than a boy when the war started, eagerly joining the ranks in the belief that he was invincible but quickly discovering the reality of war. There were particular moments he recalled in his nightmares. The worst was the boyhood friend he'd held down while the Sawbones amputated the cannon-blasted leg, hearing the screams that cut off abruptly as Sam's heart gave out, sending him into wide-eyed oblivion. How many had died that way? Killed by the very surgeons who were supposed to be saving them because of the horrifying lack of skill or laudanum to ease the pain.

He thought about the terrifying dreams that woke him night after night. It was strange but the shocked, angry and disbelieving faces of those he'd killed in the war haunted him more than the men he had faced and gunned down since. He didn't understand why his subconscious mind should treat their deaths so different. After all, during the war it had been kill or be killed whereas there were a few occasions since the war when he had gunned down someone who might not have deserved such a death.

 _Maybe the nightmares are my penance_ , he thought. But if that was the case then why did he not see the faces of those innocent ones?

The hotel manager approached his table, directing Ringo's thoughts away from his terrifying dreams.

"Mr. Fabian. Would you care to read the local newspaper while you wait for your meal to be readied?"

Ringo accepted the paper, and sipped at a refill of his coffee before skimming the front page. He found his thoughts drifting back to Tombstone, and to the friends he had made and lost there. It was then that a name seemed to spring out from the print -- John 'Doc' Holliday -- and he sighed at this explanation for his sudden feeling of nostalgia. He pursed his lips in contemplation as he read the article.

When he last saw Holliday he thought the man was not long for this world, which had pleased him no end, but it seemed that a short stay at a sanatorium had allowed Holliday to recover sufficiently. No longer addled by alcohol, Ringo thought about the slowly dying gambler who had been the catalyst behind the murders at the OK Corral. It had filled him with dismay when he saw the Earps and Holliday exonerated for murdering the McLaurys and young Billy Clanton. And it had been murder, of that he had no doubt. Revenge had led to a bitter war between the Cowboys and the Earps that left many men dead -- both the good and the bad.

He thought, once more, of the actor whose name he had taken in homage, and how Fabian had entranced them all at the Birdcage that night in Tombstone. His death had been senseless, killed over a mere bauble as he tried to stop someone robbing an actress who traveled with his troupe. Ringo had made sure the piece of dirt who committed that crime paid for it with his life, but killing couldn't bring the dead back. Avenging Fabian's murder had not granted another evening of pleasure, listening while Fabian performed yet one more Shakespearean soliloquy for an enraptured audience.

 _Gotta let it be_ , he thought savagely, knowing that he had to put the past behind him if he was to take advantage of this fresh beginning.

He ate quickly and retired to his room, spending a few moments in quiet reflection as the sound of laughter and the tinkling of the piano carried upon the evening air.

Ten days.

Ten days had passed since he started over with this new life but he still had no idea what he ought to do with this second chance. He knew he'd have to decide something soon as he was running out of money fast. The problem was that he had little idea of what he **could** do. He didn't want to look for work as a cowboy -- driving cattle or busting horses. He was far too educated for such menial labor, and hiring out as a gunman was also out of the question as he wanted to change his life for the better rather than spend the rest of it dodging bullets.

Back ten years or more ago he might have been able to take advantage of the land grab opportunities and settle on a small holding, even though he didn't believe he was cut out to be a farmer, but those halcyon days were long gone. What little land remained could be claimed for as little as thirty-two dollars -- the filing fee -- but Ringo knew he had barely twenty dollars to his name. For the first time he wished he hadn't sold the land he gained as an entitled by his soldier's warrant for so few dollars after the war but, at the time, he'd been little more than a boy with no intention of settling down on farming land. Still, it would have made a decent stake for building a horse ranch, though it would have taken some time to raise the money needed to buy good breeding stock.

So, what was left? Mining? Gambling? Working as a store or bank clerk? None of those possibilities held any fascination for him, and he did not want to travel down the same path as Doc Holliday, slowly rotting away in the gambling halls across the West. Maybe he ought to ride north into the Rockies and try his hand at trapping? He snorted at that thought, unable to see himself as some sort of grizzly mountain man.

With a sigh he realized that he had very few options available to him but, although not a religious man despite his father's attempt to push him towards the priesthood, he wanted to believe that there might be some divine reason for him being granted this second chance. He decided that he would move on tomorrow in the hope of meeting his destiny.

****

He had been riding perhaps an hour at a leisurely pace when he saw the fast approaching cloud of dust. His keen eye told him it was but a single horse and he wondered what had got the rider in such a state to be pushing so hard on a hot day like this. The answer came soon enough when he realized that the horse had no rider. With a slap of his reins and a dig of his heels, Ringo spurred his own mount forward to intercept the riderless one, knowing that he would not be able to catch up if it got too far ahead of him.

He maneuvered alongside the still racing horse, seeing the wide-eyed terror and ignoring the splatters of foam whipped back from the horse's lathered mouth and flanks. He reached out and grabbed the dangling rein, pulling back hard on both sets of reins and drawing both horses to a halt.

"Whoa, boy." Ringo called out in soft reassurance as he patted the sweating neck of the runaway horse, watching as the fear-crazed eyes relaxed. "What got you so spooked, boy?"

Only when he had the horse under control did Ringo stop to consider his actions. What was he going to do with the horse now that he had him? He knew there had to be a rider back along the trail, and part of him wondered what had separated that rider from his horse. However, another part of him didn't want to get involved with whatever incident had sparked the horse to bolting.

Land wars were a common problem out here, with ranchers fighting over the rights to water and good grazing even though the law was fairly strict over what a man could own or have control over. Still, it didn't stop some ranchers from becoming greedy, and it didn't stop problems where the water source was low compared to the number of head of cattle needing to partake of it.

Ringo looked back along the trail, knowing it would be an easy one to follow but he'd wanted to put away the past, and riding into another war so soon after dealing with the Earps gave him no pleasurable thoughts. Still, that scenario was only one out of a number of plausible reasons for the horse bolting, and the morally obligated part of his character demanded he at least check. With some reluctance, he turned both horses to follow the trail back, moving at a gentle canter.

Fifteen minutes later Ringo spotted a dark, man-sized shape on the trail ahead. He approached cautiously, stopping when he saw the man move and raise a rifle in his direction.

"Mister. Caught this horse and followed him back here. You in trouble?"

The rifle lowered none too gently, dropping into the man's lap, and Ringo realized that the man had used up the last of his waning strength. He approached and dropped down from the saddle next to the fallen man. The man looked up, his hat falling back to reveal a shock of white hair and pale blue eyes. His heavily seamed face told of years on the plains, looking into too many sunrises and sunsets. His lips were cracked and dry, those blue eyes dulled with fatigue and pain. Ringo swept his eyes along the prone man and noticed the odd angle of his right leg.

"Looks broken."

"Yeah... damn fool of a horse threw me when he stepped on a rattler. Shot the damn snake but the horse bolted."

Ringo crouched down, looking at the misshapen leg. "Not much in the way of fixings around here, but there's a town I passed through a few hours back -- Red Fork. Maybe we can rig something to carry--"

"Gotta better idea. My ranch is about half an hour at a slow walk over yonder. Maybe you can help an old man get there."

"Fine, but I'm no doctor. I can't put that leg back straight."

"No need. If you can get me to the ranch then maybe you could ride on to the next town and fetch Doc Harrison. It's a mite closer than Red Fork."

Ringo nodded, suddenly aware that he could just as easily rob the old man for what few dollars he had in his pocket, and then he could leave him here to die. However, the idea of starting a life of crime in robbery and murder repulsed him. He had done many things in his life that he regretted, and he was not about to add to the list with such a cowardly act.

"We can use that rifle of yours to support your leg, then get you back up on your horse."

"Sounds good to me... but another favor first. Could you hand me down my canteen. Got a powerful thirst."

Ringo pulled the canteen from where it was still attached to the man's horse and handed it down, drawing his own right after, and watching as the man took several small swallows. Ringo wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and replaced his canteen before taking back the man's.

"By the way, name's Cody Johnson. You got yourself a name, boy?"

Ringo felt his lips twitch in a smile. It had been a long time since anyone dared to call him _boy_. "Fabian... John Fabian."

"Well, John Fabian. Let's get this leg wrapped up and then help me onto my horse. Can't lie around in the sun all day, you know."

Ringo shook his head and laughed softly at the man's stubborn streak, and before too long, he had the leg strapped to the emptied rifle and Johnson balanced on his horse. He mounted his own gelding and kept a firm hold of Johnson's reins as he urged both horses onward at a slow walk in the direction Johnson had indicated. It took just over the half hour but, eventually, they rounded a small hill and Ringo spotted a ranch house and corral just a few miles ahead. He gave silent thanks as Johnson looked far paler with every step of his horse, and he'd had to stop once or twice when he thought the stubborn old fool would fall off.

With a grunt of exertion, Ringo got the old man off the horse and half-supported, half-carried him into the ranch house. He was surprised to see it was so spacious and clean even though Johnson had made no mention of a wife or kin. Although only a single story, it had seven doors leading off from the large room, but Johnson directed him to an overstuffed couch placed almost centrally and facing the main entrance. He took a few moments to make sure the man had plenty of what he needed -- water, gun and food -- within easy reach and then he stepped towards the door.

"I'll go find that Doc Harrison you mentioned. Send him back as quick as I can."

"Be mighty grateful, son."

****

It took only forty minutes at a brisk pace to reach the town, and Ringo headed straight for the saloon but caught himself before he could enter. He shook his head angrily, aware that he'd been following a subconscious desire to ease the dryness in his throat -- just as he always had done in the past. Looking along the dusty boardwalk, he saw a sign hanging beyond the saloon with the words _Doctor Harrison_ written upon it. He reached the doorway in a few long strides and walked inside to find the Doctor stitching a gash in a man's arm.

"Be with you in just a moment. Take a seat."

Ringo debated on whether to do as he asked or insist that the Doctor come with him right away. In the past, with his blood drowning in whiskey, he'd have made his demands at gunpoint but, sober, he realized the Doctor had almost finished sewing up his patient. Pushing aside his impatience, Ringo sat down, springing back up as soon as the Doctor sent the other man on his way.

"Need you to go out to Cody Johnson's place. The old man broke his leg falling from his horse."

"Why didn't you say so sooner?"

Ringo raised his eyebrows in surprise as the Doctor turned on him in harsh words before he started grabbing items off the shelf. He shouted out orders to an unseen assistant as he gathered several vials from the shelf.

"Jeffie, get my buckboard harnessed." He stormed towards the door but paused on the threshold and turned back. "What're you waiting for, son?"

"I done my part... not going back with you."

"You got something better to do than help an old man in trouble?"

The Doctor had eyed him from head to toe, seeing the baggy tan pants, brown shirt and a buckskin jacket that had once belonged to George Crossman. He'd swapped clothes with the very dead Crossman, hoping to convince everyone that the body lying beneath that black oak was John Peters Ringold. However, the dusty clothes had seen better days giving him every appearance of being a drifter -- a nobody going nowhere. With a start, Ringo realized that it was not just an appearance. He **was** a drifter now, with no idea of where he was going.

He let out a deep breath and followed on behind the Doctor. At the very least he might get a night's sleep under a warm roof at no cost, and maybe even a hot meal thrown in for good measure. Though he fancied he'd be cooking it himself.

****

Ringo did as he was asked, following the Doctor's directions as they straightened Johnson's leg, bandaged it securely and then settled him down.

"Still believe you'd be better off in town until this leg heals."

"You know I ain't too happy 'round all them folks. And who'd look after the horses, especially with Jezebel about to foal?"

"Where's Vickers?"

"No good, lazy sonuvabitch lighted out a week back. Rode off on a good horse."

"You told the sheriff?"

"Nah. Seeing's how he left without taking the two month's pay I owed him I guess he can have that horse in like."

"Bet that horse was worth more than what you owed him."

"True enough, but I got no hankering to see him strung up for a horse thief. As long as he don't come back this way, I'll let him be."

The Doctor sighed, shaking his head as he started to put away all his implements, and Ringo felt a growing respect for the old man. Despite his words, Ringo got the distinct impression that Johnson had taken a shine to Vickers, already convinced that his gruff manner hid a good heart.

"You can't stay out here on your own, Cody."

"Won't be on my own. Got myself some new help."

Ringo's eyes went wide when he realized that Johnson was referring to him, and he saw a similar expression of disbelief cross Doc Harrison's face. But Johnson went on quickly.

"An' don't you go telling me you got some place to be. Lived twice as long as you, boy, an' I can smell a lie a mile away."

"Look, mister. You don't know me. How do you know I won't run off with your horses just like this Vickers?"

"I'll take a chance that you won't. You could have robbed me an' left me to die out there. Could have robbed this place too, and you could have rode on without fetching the Doc... and none would be the wiser, but you didn't. Don't think you got it in you to be a common thief. Still, you could of kept on riding once you'd let the Doc know he was needed, so I figure you got no idea where your heading so why don't you stay here awhile 'til you do figure it out. In the meantime, you could help an old man and earn yourself a dollar a day with bed and food thrown in for free."

The Doc raised an eyebrow as he turned to face Ringo; both of the older men watching him to see his reaction. Ringo turned away and walked over to the window, looking out to where several fine horses were huddled together; one of them close to foaling.

Every word Johnson had spoken was true, and Ringo knew he could use a place like this, out in the middle of nowhere, to gather up his thoughts. Here, he would be far enough away from the temptation of whiskey, and he would have a chance to earn some desperately needed dollars doing work that he'd found to be agreeable in the past. He liked horses, preferred them to people and, strangely enough, he liked Johnson too. He turned back.

"If that's a dollar a day... with bed and food thrown in for me **and** my horse then it's a deal."

Johnson grinned warmly and stretched out his right hand to seal the agreement. Ringo took the hand and shook it, surprised when the fingers tightened around his rather than letting go.

"Suggest you get started if you're gonna get all them horses settled for the night."

Ringo snorted but he had a feeling that Johnson would prove to be a hard but fair man. "How long did Vickers last before he lighted out?" he asked with a wry grin.

"Four months... but I got a feeling that you'll be here a lot longer," Johnson said with a twinkle in his weary, blue eyes.

The old man released Ringo's hand and slumped back against the couch, and Ringo felt a grin widen across his face. When he left Red Fork that morning, he'd ridden out in the hope of finding some guidance, or at least a place where he might hole up until he could figure out how he could make the best of the second chance he'd been granted. He knew that broken leg of Johnson's would take a couple of months to heal, and by the time the old man was back on his feet, he hoped he would have some idea of where he ought to be headed. Despite Johnson's words, he didn't expect to stay any longer than that.

As he walked across to the stable, leading the two horses, he reflected on his good fortune. For some inexplicable reason, Johnson was willing to take a chance on him, and willing to bet that he'd be sticking around for far longer than Ringo intended. As he took up a brush and began to see to the horses, Ringo had the strongest feeling that Johnson would prove right.

THE END


End file.
